


Love Won't Save You

by TurtleTotem



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Wars Fusion, Bodyguard Romance, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-07-19 04:17:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7344562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TurtleTotem/pseuds/TurtleTotem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Guarding Charles has been Logan's purpose for over half his life. Now, with the twins to protect, an Empire to fight, and the love of Charles's life turned to the Dark Side, they have only each other to lean on. Can Logan ever be enough?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [XavierineFest2016](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/XavierineFest2016) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Star Wars AU: Despite their love, senator Charles wasn't able to stop his jedi husband Erik from joining the dark side and helping the Chancellor (Shaw? En Sabah Nur?) creating the empire. Even heartbroken at the loss of Erik and at his own failure at saving democracy, he starts the rebellion, Logan staying faithfully at his side. Of course, they get closer and closer.  
> Maybe Logan was Erik’s master, maybe he’s been one of Charles’ guard for years. Charles can be pregnant or not when Erik go dark side.
> 
> A/N: I almost didn't write this, since there is another fill in progress for the same prompt, but... I figure the internet is big enough for both of us, and I REALLY WANTED TO WRITE THIS OMG. So I'm squeezing in a chapter just before deadline. More will follow!

"What happened?" Logan demanded, as Erik's Master lowered Charles's unresponsive body to the deckplates. Without answering, Master Rogers rushed past him to the cockpit and brought the ship's controls roaring to life.

Logan's frantic fingers pressed against Charles's throat—found ghastly bruises there, and a pulse, weak and unsteady. "What's wrong with him? Rogers! Why won't he wake up?"

The ship rose, long before its engines were ready, and wobbled in the air, mirror-bright ice stretching out around them. "Erik attacked him," Rogers snapped.

Logan swore. "You should have let me come—"

"That was Charles's decision. There's a medkit in the wall, do what you can, I have to get us—"

The ship sheared suddenly to one side, the bulkheads groaning around them. Logan's shoulder slammed into the wall; he caught Charles before he could hit it, too. "Rogers, what in the name of—" He cut off as his gaze went past Rogers, through the viewport. A crumpled figure, black robes and a spreading circle of crimson stark against the snow, its one remaining arm extended toward the ship.

Erik, his face almost unrecognizable, twisted with rage as he clenched his fist and pulled them out of the sky.

The ship bounced once—Logan shielding Charles from the impact as much as he could—then rose again. Erik might have been the more renowned pilot, but Steven Rogers was no slouch either; with a shriek of protesting metal, they shot off into the sky. Logan could feel the moment they passed beyond Erik's influence, the entire ship relaxing around them.

Rogers set a course, and left the cockpit to kneel beside Logan as he let Charles settle to the deck again. He was a mess—Charles Xavier, Senator and former King, who took the ritual dress of his position so seriously that he was almost unrecognizable in casual clothes. The gauzy blue and gold layers of his vestment were torn and dirtied, ribbons and star-jewels falling from his hair. Logan ran quick hands over Charles's head, arms and legs, the vulnerable swell of his belly, but found no sign of injury—other than the bruises on his throat. He was breathing, but only barely.

Rogers pulled the medkit from its slot in the wall, took readings with a grim twist to his mouth.

"His heartrate is going down by the minute."

"Why?"

"I don't know. There's no reason for it. It's like he's just—giving up, letting himself die—"

"Bullshit," Logan snapped. "Erik did something to him. Undo it."

Rogers took a deep breath, one hand hovering over Charles. His eyes went distant, then drifted closed.

"It does have Erik's… fingerprints, for lack of a better word, all over it," he said at last. "But I don't know what he did, he may not even know, he wouldn't have done it deliberately—"

Logan didn't give Erik that much credit, personally, but in the end he didn't _care_. "Fix it."

Rogers, cool-headed Jedi Master, looked as close to panicked as Logan had ever seen him. "His life force is just… draining away, I don't know how to stop it."

"Give him more." He grabbed Rogers's wrist, feeling bone grind under the strength of his grip. "Give him mine."

Rogers opened his mouth as if to protest, then stilled, thinking. "If I could build a link between you two… Your people heal so quickly, you don't know what you look like to the Force, life pouring off you in all directions—"

"Do it, then!"

"You have to understand, I don't know if it'll work, it might just drag you down with him—"

"Then I'll go with him." He held Rogers's gaze. "I've been Charles's bodyguard since we were hardly more than children _._ This? This is exactly what I exist for."

Rogers nodded slowly. "Lie down. Don't fight me. Try to clear your mind."

Logan did, relaxing as much as he could against the hard deck. He turned his head to one side, looking at Charles beside him, a picture of pale stillness and spilled color, like a dying flower. His light, his Charles, broken and betrayed by the man he loved.

But not by the man who loved him. Logan took Charles's hand, threading their fingers gently together, and felt the warm rush as his own energy, soul, self, whatever he had to give, began pouring through the link between them.


	2. Chapter 2

Charles woke with a gasp, his heart pounding and head spinning. For a moment he was entirely disoriented, his surroundings—a tiny, claustrophic room, dim orange light and no furniture—bearing no resemblance to the last thing he remembered.

_"You don't understand, Charles, I want you at my side! We could overthrow En Sabah Nur and rule in his place, together!"_

"Charles!" Logan leaned over him, touching his cheek, and Charles's fear drained away. If Logan was here, then he was safe. "Can you hear me? How do you feel?"

"I… I don't…" Charles's voice came out raspy and weak, his throat aching. He swallowed, dry and painful, and rubbed his face with a shaking hand. His first attempt to sit up failed; Logan helped him, a pillar of strength as always. "Where are we?"

"Lifepod. The ship… Erik damaged the ship. It went down."

"Where is Erik? And where is Steve?"

Logan didn't answer right away, and Charles felt his stomach drop. "Where are they, Logan?"

"Erik's… still on the planet."

Alone, on an ice world—Charles swallowed hard, but he couldn't be surprised. At least he was still alive. Logan wouldn't lie to him about that. "And Steve?"

Logan raked a hand through his wild hair. "If anyone from the nearest planet even receives our distress signal, it'll take at least a week for them to get here. The lifepod doesn't carry enough air for three people. Not for that long."

Charles stared at him.

"Rogers stayed on the ship," Logan continued quietly. "He was hoping to land it somewhere, but… I watched it fall into the sea. I couldn't… I couldn't even argue with him, Charles, I couldn't be the one to stay behind."

"What do you mean?" Charles found he was clutching Logan's shirt, fabric bunched in his fists, overwhelmed—angry at Logan for letting Steve die, even as he was desperately relieved to have Logan still with him instead.

Logan explained, haltingly, the link Steve had built between them, the overflow of Logan's own life energy that was keeping Charles—and through him, the baby as well—alive.

"The good news is, you'll probably be pretty hard to kill now," Logan said with a crooked smile. "The bad news is that if anyone does manage to take one of us out, it'll be a two-for-one deal."

This was all rather a lot to take in. "Logan, what if it hadn't _worked?_ You could have died!"

"Which would be both my duty and my preference, under the circumstances," Logan said stonily. "Now here, you should eat."

Charles didn't protest the ration bar and bulb of water Logan pressed into his hands, but his progress against them was slow. He sat with his back against the wall of the lifepod, his feet nearly touching the opposite wall, leaning heavily against Logan's shoulder. Logan didn't speak, just wrapped an arm around him and let him be.

He and Steve had been friends for years. Now Steve was dead. And it was Erik's fault—as were the tender bruises on Charles's throat. Charles would be dead, too, probably his child as well, if not for Steve and Logan's extraordinary efforts. Erik was… lost, changed—the Erik Charles loved more than anything, the Erik who had married him in defiance of all he knew, and embraced him with joy when he found out about their baby, in spite of everything—had stood before him unrecognizable, a creature of rage and hatred and darkness.

"He has to be stopped," Charles whispered, tears gliding cold down his cheeks. "He and Chancellor—Emperor—En Sabah Nur, whatever he's calling himself now. We have to fight them."

"Fight?" Logan said. "Charles, you're in no condition to fight anyone. And Erik's going to come after you. We have to go into hiding, keep you safe—"

"We certainly do not. Hide, like we've done something to be ashamed of, and stay safe while the rest of the galaxy burns? No, we _fight_."

Logan looked at him with the deep, helpless affection that had become so familiar from him. "Everyone calls you gentle," he said. "Gentle, kind, compassionate Senator Xavier. It's all true. But they don't see that underneath, you're made of fire and stone."

"Right now I don't know what I'm made of." Charles buried his face in Logan's chest and wept, clinging to the only comfort he had left—Logan's arms around him, his soothing voice and the press of his lips to Charles's hair. Things he had not allowed himself, not since marrying Erik—since before then, even, since realizing Logan's feelings for him were not the same as his feelings for Logan. He didn't have the strength now to keep Logan at a distance. Even if it was cruel, he had to take any love offered to him now if he was going to survive this.

He stayed in Logan's embrace, wrapping his arms around the tattered fabric at his own middle, and told himself that the twinge of pain there couldn't possibly be a contraction.

***

Contractions came and went for days, Charles whispering under his breath and later begging aloud for the baby to be still, be still, stay safely tucked away where he or she wouldn't need air, wouldn't need medicine, wouldn't possibly tear Charles's body apart with no doctor here to help. The thirdsex parents of Naboo could usually deliver without help, just as women usually could, but there was always the chance of something going wrong. Logan was well-trained in first aid, sure, but there was little he—or indeed, anyone—could do if labor went wrong in a tiny floating closet with nothing more than a basic medkit and a blanket.

On the fifth day, Charles's water broke. The baby was coming whether they were ready for it or not.

Charles tried to be stoic, at first, tried to hold himself together for Logan's sake. He knew that Logan had to be even more terrified than Charles himself, knew there was nothing worse he could do to Logan than make him watch Charles suffer, helpless to intervene. But as the hours wore on, pain coming in relentless waves, calm slipped away from him; eventually Charles was screaming and sobbing, gripping Logan's hand hard enough to feel the bones grind together.

_This wasn't how it was supposed to happen,_ he wanted to cry. _I should have been on Naboo with our family doctor, my poor useless mother, and Erik, Erik, Erik should be here, it should be Erik holding my hand, Erik here to hold his newborn child—_

But Erik had made a different choice. Or was it even fair to say that? He had wanted Charles to stay with him…

If Erik couldn't understand why that was impossible, then he really was lost.

"Breathe, Charles, c'mon, breathe for me," Logan murmured, stroking sweat-soaked hair back from his face. The tiny lifepod was miserably humid now with five days' breathing and perspiring, and Charles didn't even want to think about how it smelled. "I think we're almost there, Chuck, just push hard."

"Don't call me that," Charles said, breathless and almost-laughing. It was an old joke between them, Charles objecting to the form his given name would take in Logan's native language.

"Here comes the baby," Logan said. "One more push, come on, almost there!"

Gathering whatever strength he had left, Charles screamed and pushed.

And there was the baby, there was Charles's baby—son, it looked like—as red and screaming as Charles himself, and he fell back against the metal-plate wall with a sob of relief as Logan took care of all the nasty necessities of cleaning and cutting.

"There we are," Charles cooed, managing an exhausted smile, as Logan laid the baby in his arms—already he'd stopped crying, his eyes wide and solemn. "There's my little boy. My Pietro." He was still crying, a different pain now—he and Erik had chosen that name together. Pietro for a boy, Wanda for a girl.

Only when Charles had delivered the placenta, and the contractions didn't stop, did they realize it wasn't over. Thanks be to the Force, or whatever else might be looking out for them, Pietro's twin sister arrived quickly and easily. Wanda's cries, considerably louder and more indignant than her brother's, soon had Pietro screaming again as well, the sounds echoing off the metal walls until Charles thought his sanity might break. Finally he got them both nursing, one baby on each side, and blessed silence fell.

_"Two_ of them," Charles whispered. "Oh, aren't they beautiful?" He turned his head toward Logan, who was watching the babies with a soft, wondering expression.

"They have your eyes."

Charles chuckled. "All newborn have blue eyes, darling. They may darken later." _Darling_ —where had that come from? But it had seemed so natural in the moment. Logan didn't seem to have noticed.

Their eyes surely wouldn't darken much, though, with Charles's being blue, and Erik's green. Would they look like Erik, talk like Erik, carry any of Erik's passion and intensity—and did he want them to?

Part of him did, and it made the rest of him break that much more painfully.

"There's still good in him, Logan," Charles murmured, not looking away from his children—both sleepy now, tiny bundles of warm weight. "I know there is. I can feel it."

Logan said nothing, just put his arm around Charles's shoulders. Logan was shivering, Charles realized, despite the uncomfortable humid warmth of the lifepod.

"Logan, what's wrong?"

"I'm fine, Chuck."

Charles turned his head, careful not to disturb the babies. He meant to glare at Logan, but he was too close, his nose brushing Logan's jaw and throat. He could have pulled further away, Charles supposed; instead he pressed closer, his lips nearly brushing Logan's skin. "Don't lie to me, Logan."

Logan shivered again, and deep down Charles knew he was fighting dirty. He didn't have the energy to hate himself for it.

"You had to pull a lot of strength from me," Logan said at last. "To get through the delivery."

Charles frowned. "I thought it went rather easily, under the circumstances. Unexpected twins and all."

"It did. But I don't think it would have. I guess you couldn't tell, but… there was a lot of tearing, especially with the second one. It's all healed now."

Unsettled, Charles looked down at his sleeping twins. They could have been left orphaned and helpless, with perhaps not even Logan to care for them, if things had gone badly enough.

"Thank you, Logan," he whispered. "For being here, for—for everything."

Logan tightened the arm around his shoulders. "Everything's going to be fine, Charles. Get some rest."

Charles leaned against him, exhausted beyond words, and slept.


	3. Chapter 3

A day and a half later, they heard from a vessel that had received their distress call. Smugglers, Charles rather thought; they certainly seemed in no hurry to involve the authorities of any world, and both the crew and the ship were in a state of scruffiness that was unlikely to be tolerated in any other profession. Nonetheless, they were willing enough to give aid to a stranded family. Charles thought they would have helped them even without payment, but he gave them the star-jewels from his hair. He wouldn't need them now in any case.

They had decided Logan was right, to an extent; they couldn't ignore the fact that Erik and En Sabah Nur would be looking for them—looking for Charles—and couldn't be permitted to find him. They were perfectly situated to disappear, especially after being picked up by smugglers. No one could trace where they had gone after leaving the surface of Hoth.

They would still fight. But they would fight from the shadows.

The smugglers dropped them off at a somewhat shady mining city on Bespin, where they were able to book passage to Sullust. From there, they would surely be able to contact one of Charles's trusted Senate allies, preferably Mon Mothma or Bail Organa.

They rented a tiny overnight room on Bespin, which featured—wonders of the galaxy—a real-water bathing stall. Charles nearly wept in joy at getting fully clean at last, the smugglers' limited facilities being entirely insufficient to his tastes.

While Logan took his turn with the shower, Charles stood watching over the babies. They had pulled a drawer from the dresser and padded it with blankets; inside, Wanda was asleep, Pietro grunting and kicking his feet as hard as he could. They were both so tiny, so fragile. Charles had never known until now how fragile life really was.

He glanced up at the mirror next to the shower stall. The man looking back at him, tired and pale and dressed only in a thin, white robe that kept falling off his shoulders, was not especially recognizable as Senator Charles Xavier. Nevertheless, it was surely wise that he do what he could to disguise himself. And there was something he wanted to do, anyway. Felt driven to do.

He picked through Logan's things until he found a knife.

When Logan got out of the bath, wrapping himself hurriedly in a towel, he cried out in alarm. "Charles, what are you doing?"

"It's a sign of mourning."

"I know that, but you can't just—" He pulled the knife out of Charles's hand, and they both stared into the mirror, at the patchy, butchered mess that had been Charles's hair.

"It needs to be shaved, of course, once we get it short enough. I wasn't planning to leave it like this."

"Charles…" Logan threw his hands up in exasperation, which caused the towel to shift precariously. "No one does this anymore."

"I wanted to do it when Raven died." Charles swallowed hard; Raven had been with him even longer than Logan, her people's native shapeshifting ability making her an ideal bodyguard. She had taken his place on the wrong occasion, and been killed in an assassination attempt meant for Charles. Their first evidence of how very serious the situation with the Chancellor was, though even now he couldn't prove En Sabah Nur was behind it. "Now Steve is dead, too, and Erik—Erik is—" He touched a trembling hand to his own reflection. "And I'm mourning myself, too, in a way. To the vast majority of the galaxy, I have to be dead now. I can't tell my mother, my friends—not yet, maybe not for a very long time. I have a lot to mourn."

Logan looked at him in the mirror for a moment before letting out a long exhale. "Fine. But let me do it, you're just going to hurt yourself."

He pressed up close behind Charles, a warm and solid thing to lean against, and steadied Charles's head with his arms as he sliced through one lock of hair after another. Finally it was short enough for him to switch to the razor he'd already laid out on the sink, and when it was all done, Logan brushed callused hands across the bare, sensitive skin of his scalp, sweeping away the last traces of his old life.

Charles looked like a ghost of himself, he thought. Appropriate.

Logan set down the razor. With its buzz shut off, the room was startlingly silent. The two of them were still standing pressed together, Logan's naked chest a pleasant heat that cut right through the thin fabric of Charles's robe. Logan's hands trailed from Charles's scalp down his neck and shoulders, resting on the edges of the robe that already threatened to fall and leave him bare.

They had kept their gazes all but locked in the mirror, while cutting Charles's hair; now Charles looked away, heart pounding, with no idea what to do, what he _wanted_ to do.

One of the babies began to cry.

Charles felt Logan's breath against his shoulders—a sigh of resignation? Without looking at him, Charles turned and escaped back into the bedroom, picking up Pietro to cuddle against his chest.


	4. Chapter 4

Their little family stuck out, on Sullust, towering over the gray-skinned, gill-faced Sullustans. But they weren't the only offworlders in the spaceport, and though most everyone looked once at the tall pale humans—one bald and one hooded, each carrying a bundled babe—no one seemed to look twice. Charles had not been recognized yet.

They engaged a room for the night at a dim and grimy spaceport inn, not unlike the last one but with the important addition of a com station. Charles spent a great deal too much money trying to establish a connection with the Senatorial offices of Alderaan, Corellia, or Chandrila, but it was simply too far for the outdated little machine. He settled for sending tightbeam messages, riddles of code-speak inside encryption. How long would it take someone to reply?

"I don't want us staying here more than a day or two," Logan said, keeping a suspicious eye out the window of their rented room as Charles nursed baby Wanda. "We'll draw the wrong kind of attention even aside from politics."

"Isn't that what you're here for? To protect me from thieves and vagabonds?" Charles teased.

Logan didn't smile. "Yeah, but my style of protection tends to leave corpses, and those draw attention, too."

Logan did tend to obliterate problems rather than solve them; Raven had been the subtle one. Charles felt his smile die away.

"You're right, of course. Perhaps we can move uptown a bit, find a place with a higher quality com station."

"Further uptown we move, higher the chances of running into someone who knows your fa—" Logan cut off abruptly, going tense as a bowstring at the window.

Charles, heart pounding, laid Wanda gently in her bed—once again a padded drawer. "Logan?"

"Clones," Logan murmured. "Stormtroopers. Whatever they're calling 'em now. Easy," he added, when Charles moved to grab the babies and run. "They ain't looking at us. It's the next inn over."

"What are they doing?" Charles eased up next to Logan at the window, looked down at the half-dozen white-armored troops gathered in the dim alley below. Like most of the inhabitable areas of Sullust, this one was underground, without a sunset to mark the fall of night, but all external lights dimmed at a certain hour to preserve the natural sleep cycles of the Sullustans. If not for their armor, the troops would have been virtually invisible in the gloom.

"Shhh," Logan said.

The stormtroopers conferred, then half of them went around the corner of the building. The other half, to Charles's startlement, took out rappelling gear and began climbing the wall.

On the fourth floor of the inn they were climbing, a young girl with bright red hair looked out the window, went white as a sheet, and disappeared back into the interior.

"Logan," Charles hissed, gripping his bodyguard's arm so hard the man flinched. "They're Jedi. Those are Jedi and the stormtroopers are trying to kill them, just like all the others."

"What? How do you know?"

"That girl had a Padawan braid." Charles spun away from the window and grabbed Logan's blaster from the depths of his bag.

"Charles—"

"Stay here with the babies."

_"What?"_

"I'm pretty hard to kill now, remember? Too risky to fire from here, I'll go up to the roof—"

Logan slammed a hand against the door Charles was trying to open. "You've lost your mind, I'm not letting you—"

Charles yanked Logan closer by his shirtfront. "We don't have time for this, _they_ don't have time for this, and I'm the better shot. I am charging you with the protection of my children in my absence." Driven by an impulse he was in too great a hurry to examine, he pressed a quick, hard kiss to Logan's mouth—and was out the door and up the stairs before Logan could recover enough to protest again.

Once on the roof, Charles approached the edge with cautious speed. It was true that he was the better shot—he had trained at his bodyguards' sides, determined to be useful in his own protection. But he'd seldom used that training in real-world situations. He was good against remotes, but good against the living was something else. And firing a blaster knowing there was a living person on the receiving end of it, even a brainwashed clone—that was something else, too.

But they were after a _Padawan,_ hardly more than a child, and Charles wasn't going to sit by while they killed her.

He reached the edge of the roof, took aim, and without giving himself time to think about it, opened fire on the three stormtroopers climbing the wall of the neighboring inn.

Two of them fell before they knew what had happened; the third returned fire, and Charles had to drop to his belly, under the scant protection of the lip of the roof.

Inside the room, flashes of colored light indicated blasters and lightsabers at work. Another young girl, this one with black hair, poked her head out the window—and withdrew it with a gasp, barely dodging fire from the surviving stormtrooper.

Charles peered over the edge and got off a shot, but missed widely. The stormtrooper was distracted, at least—too busy aiming at Charles to notice the black-haired girl dropping on him from above. Problem solved.

"Jean, Scott, this way!" the girl called.

More Padawans came out the window—a blindfolded boy, whom the red-haired girl aimed into a Force-assisted fall into the other girl's arms, and a blue-skinned Chiss boy who was apparently unconscious. That one she carried over her shoulder as she dropped to the ground.

"We got them all," the blind boy said. "For now. But we can't stay here."

Charles got to his feet, and the black-haired girl grabbed her companion's sleeves, pointing up at him and murmuring.

"I can help you," Charles said, and hoped Logan wouldn't be too angry.

 

Logan was livid. He stomped about the rented room, snarling under his breath and packing up the few things they had unpacked. Of course they couldn't stay here either; they all had to disappear before more stormtroopers arrived.

"Scott took a blaster bolt to the face." The red-haired Padawan, Jean, squeezed her friend's hand. "It had already gone through several layers of glass—still, The Force was with him or he'd be dead."

"My master, Alex," Scott murmured, tears creeping out from beneath the blindfold, "they killed him, they killed everyone—"

"Not everyone." The black-haired girl, Jubilee, had had either better sense or better opportunity than her friends; her Jedi robes were covered with a long bright-yellow coat. "We're still together, Scott. We just have to stay together." She was bent over the Chiss boy, one hand to his forehead; from her expression of concentration, Charles thought she must be trying to heal him, or at least wake him up.

"What happened to that one? What's his name?" he asked.

"Kurt. We found him like this on our way out of the temple," Jubilee said helplessly. "I don't know what's wrong with him."

Logan, both babies strapped to his chest, dumped the entirety of his and Charles's clothing on the bed—it didn't make a large pile. "All of you, ditch your robes. The braids have gotta go too, too many people know what a Padawan braid means. And hurry it up, I want us out of here in the next five minutes."

"But our braids…" Jean swallowed, looking close to tears. "They're only supposed to be cut off when we become Masters."

"I know." Charles closed his eyes against the memory of Erik's Padawan braid, twined around his fingers to pull him closer on their wedding night. "But your lives are at stake." He didn't say aloud that the Jedi Order as they knew it was probably gone forever. If they hadn't figured that out already, he wasn't going to be the one to break the news.

While the young Jedi were occupied—changing clothes and tearfully cutting off each other's braids, Scott joining Jubilee in trying to wake Kurt—Logan backed Charles into the corner of the room, voice low and eyes glaring.

"Charles, don't you ever do that again. I mean it. I'm supposed to protect you, that's what I do, I couldn't stand it if something—anything—"

Oh, good, he was talking about Charles recklessly running off. He wasn't talking about the kiss. It sat between them, silent and beckoning, but neither of them were going to talk about it. Not yet.

"I'll try," Charles said, the only thing he could say with honesty.

Logan holstered the blaster and they transferred baby Pietro from his chest to Charles's. No reason to overburden either of them—or put all their eggs in one basket.

Kurt sat up at last, rubbing his eyes, and some little bit more time was spent making sure he was well enough to travel. One of the masters, it seemed, had put Kurt into a deep sleep when it became clear they wouldn't escape the temple in time, hoping to hide him among the dead. What had happened to that master, no one could say.

"You kids got somewhere you're aiming to go," Logan said, "or you just running as far as you can?"

"There's an old friend of—of Alex's," Scott said. "She used to live nearby—we're hoping she still does. Moira MacTaggert."

"Moira MacTaggert?" Charles repeated. "I know her! She worked as an aide to Senator Organa, years ago."

Scott's expression brightened, as far as it could behind the blindfold. "Yeah, that's how Alex met her, some diplomatic protection detail."

"I had no idea she was on Sullust." He handed his suitcase to Jean—now clad in a black skinsuit that Charles usually wore under more elaborate items—and led the way to the door. "If anyone can help us, it's Moira."

More stormtroopers filled the streets behind them as they left, carefully not looking back.


	5. Chapter 5

Moira MacTaggert, as it turned out, had been assigned to Sullust as temporary aide to an Alderaanian ambassador there; her underground apartment was neat, comfortable, and filled with pictures of her son back on Alderaan. At first the little crowd of furtive-looking visitors huddling around her door seemed to alarm her, but when she recognized Charles and Scott, her eyes went wide and she ushered them quickly inside.

"I'm too obvious here," she said when they had filled her in on their situation. "You can't stay for long. And the ambassador I work with isn't trustworthy; that's why Senator Organa sent me out here."

"I understand," Charles said, wincing as the hungry babies began to cry. "But I need to get in touch with Senator Organa immediately."

"I'll have a holo-conference going within fifteen minutes."

 

In the end, it was ten minutes, and Moira had managed to get in contact with Senator Mon Mothma as well as Bail Organa.

"The Jedi are all but obliterated," Bail said heavily, his figure tiny and flickering before Charles. "Not only in the field, where the clones turned against them, but attacked from within their own temples and sanctuaries. If what you say about Lehnsherr is true, it explains a great deal about how that could happen."

"We're doing what we can to find the survivors before Ensabah Nur does, and get them to safety," said Mon Mothma. "But it's hard to know where safety will be, from day to day or even hour to hour—our self-styled 'Emperor' is expanding his powers, legally and illegally, at a dizzying rate."

"Is no one standing against him?" Charles demanded. "He's one man, no matter how powerful. If the entire Senate simply told him _no_ —"

"He's one man with control of an army," Bail said grimly. "The entire Senate is afraid, confused—or cheering him on."

"People don't know what to do." Mon Mothma spread her hands. "They don't know where to turn, how to even begin fighting back."

Charles drew a deep breath, feeling strangely as if this moment, these words, had a pressure and a resonance to them that would echo for a long time. "Then we'll tell them."

 

****

 

"None of you have to come," Charles said, watching Kurt bounce Pietro in his lap, while he himself nursed Wanda. "Moira can get you to safety, either here on Sullust or somewhere nearby."

Moira's single overcrowded guest room, where Logan and Jubilee were laying out pallets on the floor, was silent for a moment. Jean didn't look up from the ointment she was spreading across Scott's burned face, but at length she spoke, quiet and firm.

"There are more important things than safety."

Scott reached for her hand. "I want to come with you. If you think I can do anything to help. If I wouldn't just get in the way."

"Get in the way?" Jean half-smiled and shook her head. "Scott, which of us was always better at all those blindfolded exercises Master Yoda made us do? Let the Force speak to you; you don't need anything else."

"You're going to fight the Emperor?" Jubilee asked, fiddling with her hair, where her braid ought to be.

"I hope there won't be any physical fighting," Charles said, "not there and then. But we are essentially declaring war. We're gathering every member of the Senate we can, and utterly refuting Emperor Ensabah Nur's authority, announcing a direct Rebellion against him. I'm sure things will get messy very fast."

"I've always been good at messy," Kurt said, with his shy, sharp-toothed smile. "Count me in."

Jubilee bit her lip, and turned back to the floor pallets, spreading a blanket on each one.

"Charles," Logan murmured, sitting down beside him on the one real bed. "Considering the danger we're heading into, maybe we should consider arrangements for the children. I'm sure that Jubilee would be happy to take them along, to whatever safe place Moira finds for her—"

"I am not," Charles said very clearly, "leaving my children. Yes, there will be danger. The galaxy is a dangerous place, and getting more so. The precarious chance of physical safety is not worth tearing them away from their pa—their only family." Charles swallowed hard, and nearly missed the way these words seemed to hit Jubilee like a shock. She looked around at the other Padawans—her only remaining family—and nodded to herself slowly.

"Besides, Logan," Jubilee said, "I couldn't take them anywhere. I'm coming with you."

Charles smiled at her, warm and encouraging—hoping he was making the right choices. Kurt went a step further, hopping up from his seat to hug her tightly, Pietro gently squashed between them.

"We leave for Corellia in the morning," Charles said. "Everyone, try to get some sleep."

 

****

 

"That's what they do in the creche, you know."

Charles hadn't realized anyone else was awake, yet somehow Jean's soft voice in the darkness was not a surprise. He turned toward her, bouncing Wanda softly against his chest. The creche—Jean must mean at the Jedi temples. Erik had said once that he sometimes wished they'd trained him as a creche master instead of a warrior. "They do what in the creche?"

"What you're doing. The soothing, when a baby cries."

Bemused, Charles said, "I'm sure anyone looking after a baby does that."

"No, I mean—with your mind. The way you soothe her with your mind."

"What?"

"You don't know?" Jean cocked her head and silently rose from her bed to come to his side. "Senator Xavier—"

"Charles, please. It's safer for everyone."

"Charles, then. Don't you realize you're sensitive to the Force?"

"I…" Charles hesitated, but really, what could it matter now? "I manifested later than most. Evaded recruitment by the Jedi. I wanted a political career, not…" Not the life of a warrior monk. Knowing Erik, seeing how the Jedi Council mishandled him, had done nothing to make him regret that.

"I suspect there are more people like that than anyone wants to acknowledge," Jean said. "The Council won't accept anyone for training past a certain age, but those people don't stop existing. Untrained, their talents seldom amount to more than sharp reflexes, good instincts… unconscious empathic ability." She was peering intently at him, her face dimly lit by the outside lights through the curtains. "I have a lot of empathic talent myself, I can see much of people's hearts, and you… I think you could have been an extraordinary Jedi."

Erik had said as much, had growled about the injustice of the Council's many restrictions, that denied Charles any training without the sacrifice of his entire life. Charles had been just young enough, when they first met, that the Council might still have _forced_ him into training if they had caught on. Erik had kept his secret, and Charles was sure that contributed to the glamour and romance of their forbidden attachment.

"Touch helps, doesn't it?" Jean said, smiling down at Wanda, now quiet and sleepy again with Charles's fingertip grasped in her tiny hand. "It's easier to form a connection. And easier with people you know, minds you're familiar with. Whatever the Council says, I don't think it really matters how old you are—you can still learn to listen to the Force, to work with it and let it work through you." She brushed a light kiss against Wanda's cheek. "I didn't mean to stick my nose in, Charles. I just… with everything that's happening… it feels good to know people like you are out there. That no matter what happens to the Jedi Order, the Force lives on. Of course it does."

"It does, in all of us," Charles murmured, which was, perhaps, a platitude, but it seemed to be one they needed. He squeezed Jean's hand. "We should all follow Wanda's example, I think, and get some sleep."

Jean returned to her bed, and Charles to his, settling Wanda next to her brother in the basket that had been all Moira could provide on short notice.

For the second time that night, a quiet voice in the darkness was both unexpected and yet… not a surprise. As if part of him knew full well whether the people around him were awake or sleeping, especially a mind as familiar to him as Logan's.

"You never told me."

Charles bit his lip, crawling silently beneath the covers he and Logan were sharing. They weren't the only ones doubling up; Scott and Kurt had snapped and poked at each other briefly, and were now snoring with Kurt's head on Scott's shoulder.

"I never told anyone," Charles said at last, turning toward Logan, whose face was only a shadow among shadows—but Charles knew it well enough to _feel_ his expressions more than he saw them. "Not even my parents. Not even Erik—he figured it out on his own."

"Somehow I'm not surprised at all," Logan said. "It's as if I've always known."

"You," Charles said, reaching for Logan's hand, between them in the bed, "have always understood me better than I understood myself."

"That's pretty sad, since half the time I think I don't understand you at all." Logan's fingers interlaced with his. "Can you tell what I'm thinking right now?"

Charles felt his eyes drift closed, and his grip tightened on Logan's hand. It was very seldom that he did this on purpose, but it wasn't hard—like Jean had said, touch and a familiar mind…

"You're thinking about the day we met." Charles smiled despite himself, the memory a warm and tender thing in Logan's mind. "You thought I was much too scrawny to be a bodyguard."

"I was right."

"You were." None of the young guards hired and instructed in serving the twelve-year-old governor of Westchester had known his true identity until the last day of training. "But you looked out for me anyway. Grumbling all the while."

"I knew you were something special," Logan whispered, so low that Charles, mere inches away, could barely hear him. "Something I would never see again, anywhere else. I knew before any of them."

"Dropping me in a mudhole was a funny way of showing it!"

"I'm a funny guy." Faint light glinted on Logan's teeth as he smiled, and Charles realized he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Logan smile, _truly_ smile.

"I love you." The words seemed to escape from Charles's mouth without his permission, and he ached, wondering how Logan would take them, hoping he wouldn't hear more than Charles was saying, could say—

"I know," Logan said, lightly, jokingly, and Charles could sense that to Logan, his own breath of relief, the way his body relaxed trustingly beside him, was the reward for a job well done. "Get some sleep, Charles."

With his hand still entwined with Logan's, Charles slept.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Declaration of Rebellion](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Declaration_of_Rebellion) adapted from Wookieepedia.
> 
> Also, the next couple chapters are going to be pretty heavy on the Cherik, but I promise this really is an Xavierine fic!

They'd been on Alderaan for interminable days, debating and testifying and drafting. Just getting there had taken too long for Charles's tastes, but he had to admit that Alderaan was the best place for this meeting. The planet had a long history of peace, wisdom, and impartiality; if condemnation of the Emperor came from Alderaan, people would listen.

It had not, Charles told himself, been the waste of time it felt like. Thanks in part to the testimony of Jean and the other Padawans, immediate efforts had been launched to find and rescue surviving Jedi; that had proceeded even while other debates raged on. And those debates had been necessary to turn a gathering of confused and frightened senators into the organized and determined leaders of a Rebellion.

And now they were ready.

The Senatorial Chambers on Alderaan were airy and sunlit, open to a breeze that brought the competing scents of snow and spring grass. It was cool enough to make Charles's heavy senatorial robes less of a burden; they'd been put together in a hurry and from nonstandard materials, but they would have to do. Shades of blue, black and violet suited the seriousness of the occasion, and the elaborate headdress—fan-like, with long teardrops of glass around his face—covered the distraction of his scalp, where hair was just beginning to grow back in a dark fuzz that Logan kept trying to ruffle. Appearance always mattered more than it should, and everyone had done their part to ensure that this broadcast would be taken seriously.

Charles, Bail Organa, and Mon Mothma, the three spearheads of this movement, stepped forward to take the foreground of the broadcast. Behind them were arrayed the other senators, and before them, out of sight of the recording, the aides, witnesses, allies and supporters who had helped bring them to this point. Charles kept his eyes on Logan, standing tense with displeasure at his physical separation from the man he guarded, and their Padawans—all here but Jubilee, who was caring for the babies in their assigned suite elsewhere in the Senatorial Complex.

The hovering droid with the broadcasting equipment settled into place before them, and the white light of its recording eye winked on. Thanks to the technical wizardry of certain supporters, this broadcast would be making its way, in real-time, across the galaxy, interrupting a variety of other signals and storing itself at every opportunity.

As of now, the galaxy was watching.

Senator Organa spoke first, endeavoring to be simple and succinct as they had agreed. There was no way of knowing when Imperial interference might bring down the broadcast. "As a representative of the planet Alderaan, I have dedicated many years of my life to the work of peaceful government. Emperor Ensabah Nur has made it clear that his intentions are utterly incompatible with this goal. It is with a heavy heart that my fellow senators and I make a formal announcement of Rebellion Against the Galactic Empire, and an Alliance to Restore the Republic."

Mon Mothma took over, reciting the exact words they had drafted. "We, the beings of the Rebel Alliance, do this day send forth this Declaration to the Emperor, and to all sentient beings in the galaxy, to make clear to all the purposes and goals of this Rebellion."

Charles did not immediately notice the dark shapes appearing in the sky. First the aides and supporters, then the other senators behind him, began to shift and murmur, gazing out the windows. The rising fear in the room was impossible to mistake.

"We believe that the Galactic Empire has willfully and malignantly usurped the rights of the free beings of the galaxy," Mon Mothma continued, unperturbed, "and therefore, it is our unalienable right to abolish it from the galaxy. We do not take this course lightly—"

Shouts and gasps—Charles could not keep himself from turning to look, could not hold back his own reaction to the fighter ships closing on their position and opening fire.

Fire that scattered, harmless as light, against the invisible domed shield around the Senatorial Complex.

The tension in the room eased a certain amount—but everyone knew there were ways around shields.

"The history of the present Galactic Empire is of repeated injuries upon its members, with the direct objective of establishing Emperor Ensabah Nur as absolute tyrant over the galaxy." Still Mon Mothma could have been carved from marble, and Charles tried to draw his composure into line with hers. Nothing was as important, right now, as completing the broadcast while they could. "You have disbanded the Senate, the voice of the people. You have instituted a policy of blatant racism and genocide against the nonhuman peoples of the galaxy. You have overthrown the chosen leaders of planets—"

The fighters, unable to penetrate the shield, were withdrawing. In their place, larger ships approached, already dropping stormtroopers in neat, merciless rows. The shield would pose little difficulty to them.

Beyond the holorecorder droid, evacuation was beginning, Senatorial aides making visible efforts to keep it calm, quiet and organized. One tried to usher Logan and the Padawans out of the room, but they wouldn't move.

A large black shuttle was descending onto the Senatorial Complex grounds, in full view of the chamber, its black wings furling upward as it settled to the ground.

Erik.

Charles could feel it, as certain as his own heartbeat. Erik was in that shuttle. Erik was here.

Mon Mothma had fallen silent. Right, because Charles was supposed to speak the last part of the declaration. He closed his eyes, for the briefest of moments, trying to block out everything else.

"We, the Rebel Alliance, do therefore in the name—and by the authority—of the free beings of the galaxy, solemnly publish and declare our intentions." His voice, somewhat to his surprise, was not shaking at all. "To fight and oppose the Emperor and his forces, by any and all means at our disposal; to refuse any Imperial law contrary to the rights of free beings; to bring about the destruction of the Galactic Empire; to make forever free all beings in the galaxy. To these ends, we pledge our property, our honor, and our lives."

The droid's white light faded. The broadcast was complete.

"Everyone get to your ships," Bail Organa barked, turning to the other gathered senators, aides already thronging around him to receive orders. "My people will provide what defense we can for your departure. Alternately, there is shelter available in the underground storage areas of this complex. We have to evacuate this chamber before—"

A man stepped out of the shuttle, a black cloak billowing behind him. It didn't make his silhouette any less achingly familiar. And if Charles had needed any further proof of his identity, he carried a lightsaber in one hand, the blade an unexpected scarlet.

Charles had never been afraid of Erik, never once. Not when he saw him in battle, a figure of surreal grace spilling death in all directions. Not when Erik killed his mother's murderer, defying both Republic and Jedi law. Even when Erik turned on Charles himself, on Hoth, his mind and spirit fracturing under the pressure of power Charles couldn't understand—even then Charles had been afraid _for_ Erik, not of him. He knew he ought to be afraid now, that the man approaching the Senatorial Chamber at the head of a wave of stormtroopers might bear little resemblance to the Erik he had known.

He wasn't afraid. Not because he had any faith that Erik wouldn't hurt him—the confrontation on Hoth had proven he could. But he loved Erik, and the dread and terror he knew he ought to feel—and could feel, all around him in the room that wouldn't be empty fast enough—simply didn't come.

"Charles!" Logan's voice finally pulled Charles's gaze away from Erik's approach. "Come on, we need to get out of here. Jubilee and the twins are already at the ship."

Charles drew breath to reply—and the roof over their heads shattered, raining shards of glass and metal into the chamber. Logan tackled him, a heavy weight protecting him from the sharp edges, and from the blaster bolts that followed.

Charles's head hit the floor hard enough to make his ears ring, and he was never able to clearly remember everything that happened next. He retained only scattered images—lightsabers flashing in a circle around him, Logan's voice snarling in his ear, the tinkle of broken ceremonial teardrops around his face. Screaming and the smell of smoke. Scott, still blindfolded, fighting a half-dozen stormtroopers without breaking a sweat.

Logan half-carried him through the twisting underground corridors, to the ship Senator Organa had given them—they'd all known they would have to scatter and flee after the broadcast, known Imperial retaliation would be swift, though not _this_ swift. Everyone was taking a different path to the rendezvous, the new Rebellion headquarters on Yavin IV.

Whether it was the actions of the troops pursuing them, or something happening overhead, the result was a collapse of the tunnel. Jean cried out as falling rocks pinned her down, Scott stumbling and trying to feel his way back to her.

Charles shook off Logan's confining arm and ran back for Jean. Together he and Logan pulled her free of the rubble, and Charles pushed her toward the ship—just in time for another pile of rock to fall between them, cutting him off from the others. He heard Logan shout his name.

And then the cave-in caught him, crushing him down into darkness.


	7. Chapter 7

"The Emperor wants to see that one as soon as possible."

Charles tried not to let on that he was awake, but the moment he came even partially conscious, the screaming pain in his legs made him gasp, his body jerking—which made the pain indescribably worse.

"Be still, you." The same voice again, a young woman, uneasy and almost concerned.

Charles opened his eyes, and his surroundings revolved dizzily for a moment before coming into focus. Utilitarian metallic walls, flourescent lights—he was aboard a ship, and lay on the hard floor of a cell. Outside the forcefield on the doorway stood a male guard in Imperial uniform, and the young woman who had spoken. She had dark skin, white hair that stood up in a crest, and was dressed all in black, complete with a cape like—like Erik's.

"Open it," she said to the guard, who moved obediently to the control panel.

"You'll have to carry him," he said indifferently. "Both his legs are broken."

The young woman nodded, as if this were no less than she expected. She didn't look nearly strong enough to carry a full-grown man, and Charles wondered if—knew, suddenly—she was Force-sensitive. In fact, if he wasn't very much mistaken, there was an uneven tuft of hair near her temple, like the ones left by Jean and the others when they cut off their Padawan braids.

He'd been all but stripped, Charles realized as he made an ill-advised attempt to sit up; all that remained of his elaborate Senate gown was a thin lilac-colored undershirt and soft gray trousers. Even his shoes were gone, but perhaps that was best, since his feet were swollen and discolored. Now that he thought of it, his trousers would have had to come off, too, for any attempt to treat his broken legs. That clearly had not taken place.

The bond between himself and Logan had healed him, last time he was hurt; Logan must be too far away now. Many lightyears away.

"Be _still_ ," the young woman said again. "I'm going to lift you as smoothly as I can."

He tried to cooperate with her efforts, biting back a cry of pain. There was no lift in the galaxy smooth enough to keep it from hurting when his legs slid, shifted, then dangled loosely from her arms.

By the time Charles had enough breath to speak, they had passed through the detention area—mostly empty cells; Charles wondered how many other prisoners had been taken from the Senatorial Complex—and into the enclosed space of a lift.

"What's your name?" he asked the young woman.

"Ororo," she said after a moment.

"Ororo," he murmured. "How is it that you were spared, Ororo?"

He felt her shift uncomfortably, which was _excruciating,_ but he didn't let on. After a long moment, she answered, "Lord Magnus spoke for me."

"Lord Magnus," Charles said. "You mean Erik Lehnsherr."

She seemed surprised to hear the name, at least from his mouth. "He's not Erik Lehnsherr anymore."

"Yes, he is. Why would Lord Magnus speak for anyone?" He sensed there was more to the story—some history between Erik and this Padawan, or some shared treatment at the hands of the Jedi Council—but it nearly didn't matter. A true Lord of the Sith would not have spared anyone who could compete for his place at his master's side.

"I don't know who you are," Ororo whispered, not looking at him. "But if you think you know Lord Magnus, you're wrong. Don't think you can ask his mercy. He has none."

Then the lift was opening, and Ororo carried him forward into what was essentially a throne room.

Wide viewports to either side opened the chamber to the darkness of space, peppered with stars and the faraway silver-blue gleam of Alderaan. Fluorescent light drifted down from far overhead, gleaming on the black mirror of the floor without seeming to provide much illumination. Steps rose to a dais containing the only furniture in the room—a grandly decorated chair, centered before one viewport so that starlight fell across its occupant.

Charles knew the face of Emperor—formerly Senator—Ensabah Nur well enough. He looked more like a statue than a man, carrying the thick blue-gray skin of the native people of Naboo, his mouth always set in an expression of mournful disapproval. Too many people, for far too long—and Charles longer than he wanted to admit—had been fooled by Nur's pretense of compassion and paternal concern. So few had realized what he really was, until he declared himself Emperor and seized the entire galaxy in an iron grip.

But Charles had little attention to spare for the Emperor. There was another man in the room, standing at the foot of the dais, and he had stepped back, face white with shock, at the sight of who Ororo carried.

"Charles," Erik said, his voice barely a breath in the echoing room.

"Set him down," the Emperor instructed, and Ororo did so—as gently as she probably could, but Charles still couldn't repress a choked sound of pain as he settled to the hard floor, trying to prop himself up on his arms. Ororo took up position across from Erik at the foot of the dais; Erik took a step away from his own place, moving toward Charles, but stopped at a murmured word from the Emperor.

"Erik." Charles didn't mean to say it, but it seemed to be the only word his mind could hold, and it came out carrying shades of all the contradictory things he didn't know how to feel right now. Then he got a better look at Erik's face—and had to say it again, this time in stunned horror. _"Erik…"_

He had interpreted Erik's face as white with shock, but that wasn't true. It was actually gleaming _silver_ , a dozen or more precise angles of metal, carefully designed to imitate a human face, but… not quite achieving it. One eye was still beautiful grey-green, but the other was black glass, with some kind of red spark deep within it. The helmet and armor he wore—all gleaming black—made it hard to say how much further the change went; even his hands were covered by black gloves.

"No doubt you are surprised to see him now, Senator Xavier," Ensabah Nur said, gravelly and portentious, "after leaving him for dead on Hoth."

"What?" Charles tore his eyes away from Erik long enough to give the Emperor a horrified glare.

"It was indeed a wonder, injured as he was, that he survived long enough for me to find him," the Emperor said. "The cold claimed huge swathes of his skin, froze many of his organs—but by bending the Force to my will, I kept him alive. Now he has a body of platinum and steel, more powerful by far than his old one."

"Oh, Erik, I'm so sorry." Charles felt tears crowding his eyes, and saw no reason to fight them. This was worth shedding tears over.

"Charles." Erik had not looked away from him for a single moment. "I saw your ship go down. I thought you were dead."

"There was a lifepod." Charles's heart ached briefly for Steve, sacrificing himself for the rest of them—but Erik's former master was too fraught a topic to bring up, not here, not now.

"And—the baby?"

Telling Erik the truth was undoubtedly reckless and stupid, but he couldn't lie about this, not with Erik's agony twisting the very air between them. Silently, Charles pushed a mental image toward him—little Wanda and Pietro, _healthy/safe/escaped._

Erik staggered as if his legs were failing. _My family_. The thought whispered from his mind, hushed but distinct. _I have a family. Charles. Two children. They're alive_.

"It's no use trying to throw yourself on his mercy now," the Emperor was saying. "The Erik Lehnsherr you knew is dead. Before you stands Darth Magnus, Sith Lord and servant of the Empire."

"You're wrong," Charles said, soft and matter of fact, unable to keep himself from smiling.

Ororo shifted her weight uneasily, her gaze drifting away from the drama unfolding before her and surveying the room. Charles knew what was distracting her, had already felt the pain fading in his legs. He could not see Logan, or any of the Jedi that might be with him; he was as susceptible as anyone to the various Force-tricks that could cloud and evade the senses. But healing aside, he could not fail to recognize Logan's bright, hot, rushing heart, now so intimately connected to his own, when it was nearby. Doubtless that bond was how they had found Charles so quickly.

He spared a moment, doing what he could to encourage Ororo to forget her suspicions. But only a moment. Logan and the Jedi would have to look after themselves, if he was going to save Erik.

"Darth Magnus," the Emperor growled, "bring him to me. We will stop his lies once and for all."

Erik hesitated. The Emperor's permanent frown deepened.

_Erik, this is not who you are._ Lying on the floor, Charles shifted painfully, until he could support his weight on one arm, and hold the other hand out to Erik.

The turmoil within Erik was its own presence in the room, and Ensabah Nur surely could not fail to feel it. Memories churned and whispered, not all of them good ones—and the most recent were the darkest, things Erik had already done in the Emperor's service, thinking everyone he had ever loved was dead. Thinking the universe held no better hope or purpose than what the new Empire offered. Charles felt hollow and sick even contemplating them, but he held his eyes steady on Erik's face, unrepulsed, unafraid.

And he saw other images come to the fore of Erik's mind, dwarfing all else—memories of the two of them together, the sweetest moments of Erik's life. The deepest—almost the _only—_ love he'd ever known.

"Magnus," said the Emperor, eyes hardening as he tried to call his monster back to leash. "Do not let _this_ man, of all men, be a threat to your loyalty—to all we are building together. He betrayed you."

"No," Erik murmured, flinching from the memory of his own hand tightening around Charles's throat. "I betrayed him."

Erik's lightsaber flared scarlet, its thrum rising into a snarl as Erik spun and leaped toward the Emperor.

"Now!" Charles cried, and suddenly the air was filled with lightsabers, the Padawans dropping with acrobatic grace from impossible hiding places near the ceiling.

"Charles!" Logan dropped to a crouch beside him. "I'm here, I'm here, you should be healing—"

"I am, I think." But his legs crumpled with a deeply disturbing _crack_ the moment Charles tried to pull them up beneath himself. Logan reached for him, but Charles pushed him back. "Help the others!"

Only a few meters away, battle was raging—Erik and the four Padawans in a ring around the Emperor, sabers flashing off some sort of energy field the Emperor had called up around himself. Broad gestures of his arms brought plates and struts flying from the walls, which the others scrambled to deflect or evade. Ororo, left outside the protective field, looked wide-eyed and very young, but continued to defend her Emperor, lightning flying from her hands and crackling over Erik's metal skin. He screamed, falling to his knees.

Logan hit Ororo like a wrecking ball, smashing her into a column and then the floor. Leaving her there, stunned, he leaped into the path of the circling debris, turning aside jagged points and sharp edges before they could reach the Padawans.

Ororo stirred, holding her head and trying to get to her feet.

_Ororo_. Charles put all his focus into touching her mind—it was orders of magnitude more difficult than soothing his child, trying to communicate with a mind so unfamiliar, so far away. _Is this how you want to die, Ororo? Fighting for_ him _? I know how much you fear him. I know what you've seen him do. You don't have to be part of this._

Crackling lightning faded from her hands. "You don't understand," she whispered, her voice carrying to his mind, if not his ears, over the increasingly desperate sounds of battle. "He can't be killed. He can't be defeated."

_We'll see about that_.

Charles turned his mind to Ensabah Nur.

The shield that protected him from physical attack did nothing to keep Charles out, even as untrained and unformed as his talents were. What Charles touched within the Emperor's mind was a monolith of darkness and desire for power—and it was a weapon in its own right. It radiated dread and despair, dragging at his opponents until their every movement was as much a psychic battle as a physical one. Only Jean, with her greater Force-talent for the mind, seemed to have some resistance to it.

"Insignificant children!" The Emperor's voice filled the room in a way mere physics could not account for. "You think you can resist the rightful rule of the strongest. You will learn differently."

_It is you who will learn_ , Charles thought, and struck.

Charles had trained alongside his bodyguards. He might know little about using the Force to attack a mind, but he knew how it felt to attack a body. It turned out the two skills were not so different.

Inside the murky spaces of his own mind, Ensabah Nur was caught off guard, and Charles's fist knocked him right to the ground.

"You think strength gives you the right to do as you please?" Charles hit him again. "You think because you have the power to tear apart my family, kill my friends, destroy everything I've worked for—" he hit him again, as he tried to get to his feet, and kicked him for good measure, "—you think you have the right? _Here_ is your rule of the strongest!" Another blow send Nur's body sliding across the floor to crash against the wall.

Charles was on the edge of something very dangerous, he knew that. He could feel the pull of the Dark Side, urging him on, whispering _how good it would feel_ to obliterate his monstrous man from the inside out—how could it be an evil thing, to destroy evil?

_Don't, Charles._ Jean's voice.

_Don't, Charles_. That voice was Erik's. _Let me._

Charles opened his eyes. Distracted by the mental attack, Ensabah Nur had fallen to his knees, and the shield around him was failing, flickering. Erik, swaying on his feet, reached up toward the ceiling—and yanked down a long metal beam. It plunged through the faltering shield and into the floor, burying itself in the Emperor's chest.

The mental explosion hit everyone; collapsing with their hands over their ears didn't actually help, but no other action seemed possible through the waves of screaming rage. The Force-lightning the dying Emperor unleashed was more carefully aimed—a blinding mass of it, all the power he could hold, unloaded solely into the one who had betrayed him. Erik.

Charles knew he was screaming, could feel the pain of it in his throat, but could hear nothing through the indescribable howl enveloping his mind—

Suddenly it went quiet, all sense of the Emperor's power gone from the room. Jean, pale and panting, stood over the Emperor's head—now separated from his body—and after a long moment, deactivated her lightsaber. Without its hum, the silence was absolute.

Scott stumbled to Jean's side, and she let him draw her away from the body, one arm around her shoulders as the other dangled limp and bloody. His blindfold had come off in the fight, revealing the burned mess of his eyes, but he moved confidently through the scattered debris until he found a piece large enough for both of them to sit on.

Kurt sat up slowly, touching unexpected dark marks around his throat—what had Charles missed, while he was inside the Emperor's head? Ororo hesitantly stepped forward, and helped him to his feet. A few steps away, Jubilee was cleaning blood from her face, her hands shaking.

Erik, the machinery of his body sparking and smoking, was trying to crawl towards Charles, every movement a whine of protesting metal.

"Charles, don't move." Logan was stroking his face, wincing as blood touched his fingers—his nose was bleeding, Charles realized. "You're not healing right, I don't know why—Charles, stop!"

Charles's legs hurt terribly; he groaned and stopped trying to crawl. "Erik," he said, his gaze at Logan almost a glare. "Get me to Erik."

Logan looked pained, but lifted Charles in his arms and crossed the room to lay him down next to Erik.

"Charles." Erik's voice was faint and raspy. "You're all right?"

"Yes." Charles could barely force the word through his tight throat.

"The children? Our children, they're safe?"

Charles knew Logan would have made sure of it, but glanced up at him for confirmation anyway. Logan nodded. "Yes, Erik, they're safe."

"Tell them," he was struggling for the air to speak now, something in his chest whining and catching as he tried to breathe, "tell them I love them. Tell them I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Charles."

"I know," Charles whispered. He touched a hand to the side of Erik's face, the dozen tiny metal plates now cracked and distorted, and wondered if he could even feel it. The artifical eye was black and dead; tears trailed from the remaining real one.

With difficult, jerky motions, Erik pulled off one black glove, and reached for Charles's cheek. Charles gasped when he felt real skin against his; Erik still had part of that hand left, not much more than the thumb and forefinger, but enough to touch. Charles pressed it harder to his cheek, closing his eyes.

"Isn't there anything we can do?" murmured Ororo, somewhere in the background.

"We're all just apprentices," Jean answered miserably. "Even if we weren't, I don't think so. Machinery can't heal, the Force can't do much to affect it. And…" Her voice dropped. "I don't think he would accept the help anyway."

It wasn't that Erik wanted to die, Charles thought. He just felt that he deserved to. His soul had already been so tenuously tied to its horribly damaged vessel, with all its metal parts that the Force couldn't speak to—that connection would never survive the physical and emotional trauma ripping through it now.

"There's good in you, Erik." Charles's words were a plea. "It's still there. I can feel it."

"You're the only one who ever did."

Not quite true; Steve had mishandled Erik at what seemed to be every possible opportunity, but he had loved him, believed in him. Charles felt a sting in his chest, his mind repeating the image of the ship falling into the icy waters of Hoth—but Erik didn't ask, was afraid to ask, and since he was right to be, Charles said nothing.

"I ruined everything, and I can't set it right," Erik said, moving his thumb back and forth across Charles's cheek. The words were fainter than ever, and parts of his body that had been twitching and sparking had stopped now, lying utterly still. "Can you forgive me? You shouldn't, no one should. But can you?"

"Yes," Charles whispered. He shouldn't, it was true. Erik had done horrifying things, to people who would never get justice. But he was paying for those crimes now. And regardless, Charles knew in his heart that he would always have forgiven Erik, no matter what he'd done, whether he deserved it or not.

Erik let out a shuddering breath, the broken pieces of his face forming something like a smile.

"This wasn't how things were supposed to go," Charles said desperately. "We were supposed to… watch sunsets from my family's summer house on Naboo. You were going to teach me your mother's lullabyes. We were going to raise children together. Grow old together. I was… I was supposed to get you away from here. I was supposed to save you."

"You did, Charles." Erik's hand on his cheek was still now.

_No!_ Charles pulled Erik closer, wrapping his arms around him as if that could trap his spirit inside his failing body. Ensabah Nur must have done something like that, to save him on Hoth—but Charles didn't know the trick of it. Perhaps it was best that he didn't.

_I love you_ , Erik said, no longer able to speak aloud. Charles kissed him, and made sure he could feel it, some part of it, through all the dead and damaged artificial nerves.

And then he was gone.

Things happened around them—the Padawans forcing the cooperation of a comconsole, barricading the door against Imperial guards, opening it later to what seemed to be Rebel forces, some of whom took away the Emperor's remains. Charles stayed with Erik.

"They have to take him away, Charles." Logan's voice penetrated the fog of denial and grief. His hand was gentle on Charles's shoulder. "We're not leaving him here. He's coming with us—to Naboo, if you want. But you have to let go."

Charles knew it was true, but it was harder than he could have imagined. "Help me," he said to Logan, and tried not to resist when Logan pulled his arms gently away from Erik.

They took Erik's body away, and Charles thought, _That was the last time. I'll never feel him in my arms again._ Only then did he begin to cry in earnest, bundled against Logan's chest, with his shattered legs still refusing to heal.


	8. Chapter 8

The Xavier summer estate on Naboo was a lovely place during the warmer months of the year, full of flowering trees and rolling green hills, songbirds nesting in the gazebo overlooking the lake.

It was too bad they arrived in late autumn, when the grounds were carpeted in dead leaves and the lake as lead-gray as the sky overhead.

Charles's mother badgered him for days, trying to persuade him to go back to the city. She'd always preferred urban life, and once she recovered from her genuine joy at having her son (and unexpected grandchildren) restored, she and Charles both began to remember why they spent so little time together. In the end it was the best visit they'd had in years, and they parted amicably, Charles's mother shaking her head helplessly when her son insisted on remaining in the cold countryside.

They were visited by a number of relieved family members and friends, during those first weeks, some of whom had hardly had time to hear about his alleged death to begin with, but all of whom were eager to hear about the overthrow of the short-lived Galactic Empire. Logan took it upon himself to keep all visits brief, and Charles was happy to let him.

They had a perfect excuse in the form of Charles's health. With his link to Logan, Charles's legs ought, theoretically, to have healed very quickly. Doctors debated about factors such as Logan's absence during the first day or two of the injury, followed by quick healing while badly positioned, and then the second, even messier break, followed by a medically necessary _third_ break to get the shattered bones properly set…

"A few weeks in a bacta tank would surely set it all to rights," one doctor suggested.

"And if it didn't?" Charles shook his head. "No, they'll heal on their own, sooner or later. I'm not missing the weeks with my babies. They're growing so fast as it is!"

Jean, assigned to Charles as a bodyguard during her own recovery, insisted on bringing in a Jedi healer, who gently informed Charles that the problem was psychosomatic.

"I think you know that already," the man said. "You're not letting yourself heal yet. It's all right. It'll come." He squeezed Charles's hand and went away.

The Jedi Order, like the Republic itself, was still being patched back together. They'd lost over three-quarters of their numbers, and an even greater percentage of their archives, materials and sanctuaries. Master Yoda was the only surviving member of the High Council, and had in fact formally stepped down from the role, though he served as de facto leader in the absence of anyone else to gather around. It was clear that whatever future the Jedi formed for themselves would have to be very different from their past.

_"My master says I'm supposed to bring balance to the Force,"_ whispered Erik's voice in Charles's memory. _"I don't know what that means. I don't think anyone knows what it means. Sometimes I think the only way to 'balance' this heartless, stagnant, self-righteous mess they call the Jedi Order would be to burn it to the ground and start over."_

Charles started laughing, remembering that, in a way that didn't feel like laughter at all, and was only able to stop when he realized it was scaring the twins.

Autumn descended into winter, the lake freezing over and the tree branches bare but for armfuls of snow. The house had never been designed for winter comfort, and Logan and Jean complained about the drafts and the cold floors. Charles bundled the babies in extra layers, and would not hear of leaving. This was where he had always planned to come, when the war was over. He and Erik and their baby. Their family.

It was hard for Charles to sleep. He kept forgetting to eat. His legs didn't heal.

Some of the more hysterical voices in the reformed Senate wanted to make some sort of statement with Erik's body—a gibbet was actually suggested—but an appalled Bail Organa quashed the idea. The body was eventually released to Charles for burial.

Charles would have neither Jedi representatives nor ceremonies for the event—nor did the Order offer, Erik's legacy being so very tangled a thing. Charles wanted to follow the customs of Erik's homeworld, but Tattooine—a planet where constantly shifting sand made burial an uncertain prospect—favored cremation, and so much of Erik was metal and unable to burn… He compromised on a pyre followed by Naboo-style burial of what remained.

"Erik was always fascinated by open water, he would like being so close to the lake." Charles, leaning heavily on his crutches, shivered in the winter wind, as he, Logan and Jean watched the burial crew affix a marker to the grave. Charles's funeral garments of silver and violet were multilayered, but thin. Or perhaps the cold had nothing to do with his shivering.

Logan put an arm around him, pulling him close as if to protect him from the wind. He didn't speak—he had never approved of Erik, and couldn't truly share in Charles's grief. But Charles could feel how Logan's heart ached for _him_ , and even for the children, who would never know their father. He knew that Logan would have saved Erik, if he could, for Charles's sake. In spite of everything.

Somehow that thought broke Charles's composure when nothing else had, and he felt tears begin to burn tracks through the silver mourning powder covering his face, probably smearing the symbolic violet tears painted there. Jean hurried to his other side, and she and Logan surrounded him in warmth and support while he came apart.

*

In a peculiar way, things got better after that. Having Erik close by, laid to rest, seemed to—not fill, but soften the edges of the awful hole inside him. Charles found himself eating a bit more. His legs hurt a little less.

Sleeping, however, got worse. Charles thought it must be something like feeling the pain of a battle-wound only after the fight was over; now that he was feeling better during the day, everything came out at night. When he could sleep at all—and that was by no means guaranteed, with twin infants to care for—he dropped straight into formless, inarticulate nightmares, full of disconnected sounds and images that he could seldom hold in his memory, even after he woke crying out in terror.

One night Logan pulled a pallet in Charles's bedchamber, and flopped down on it without a word.

"Logan..."

"I figure maybe I can run interference with the kiddos for you. Let you get more sleep."

Charles sighed. "Fine."

The next thing he clearly remembered was gasping and thrashing in panic, his mind full of—the Emperor's voice, sullen red light, a black-rotted hand and the most pervading sense of horror and loss—

"It's okay, Chuck, it's me. I've got you. It's me."

Logan. He was safe in his room, at his home, and the arms around him weren't a threat, they were _Logan_ , who always kept him safe.

Charles relaxed so suddenly and completely that Logan started frantically feeling for his pulse, and kissed three different spots on his face when he found it.

After that, Logan slept with him every night. He told Charles there were still nightmares, sometimes, but when he woke in Logan's arms Charles went back to sleep so easily that he didn't even remember them happening.

He slept through the children's inevitable nighttime cries, too, for four nights running; Logan tended to them, as promised. Once, Charles woke just before dawn, to see Logan outlined in faint pearly light from the window, bouncing Wanda against his chest and smiling down at her more gently than Charles had ever seen. He didn't let on that he had woken. It was too perfect a moment to break.

The grounds were just hinting at the existence of spring—muddy and gray, but with hints of green underneath—when Jean was called back to active service in the Order. They had rebuilt her home temple, to the extent that it could be done, and she had still some training to complete before she could be made a full Knight.

Saying goodbye to Jean was hard; she had very much become part of their household during those cold, isolated months. The twins loved her, and she and Logan had grown quite surprisingly close. She had needed the quiet place to recover; the Jedi healers ruled that some psychic fallout of the Emperor's death had hit her harder than anyone else. But she was fit for duty now, and eager to return to her friends. She cried when she left Naboo, but made no attempt to stay longer.

The first night after Jean had gone, Charles and Logan sat before the fire in the smallest parlor of the house, the most used this winter as it was the easiest to heat. Both babies were asleep, for once, their little minds a contented murmur against the edges of Charles's senses.

"In a few weeks, we won't need a fire anymore," Charles said, feeding a few logs into the fireplace. "Spring comes quickly to this area, when it finally comes."

Logan nodded, not looking up from the knife he was sharpening with slow, deliberate strokes. Even here, in almost painful isolation, on Charles's own land, he maintained vigilance. Protecting Charles, as he always had.

"It will be good to see things begin to flower and grow again." Charles joined him on the soft, low sofa, pulled close to the fire. "You can see it starting already, here and there."

"The roads will be clear soon enough," Logan said. "Not that they were ever really that bad. Just enough to be a good excuse."

Charles said nothing.

Logan set down the knife and whetstone, slide a hesitant arm around Charles's shoulders. "We can't stay here forever, Chuck. Unless you're retiring from the Senate, I guess."

Charles took a long, slow, shuddering breath. "No." He'd certainly thought about it, thought about never leaving Naboo again, retreating like a tortoise into a shell, protected and safe and immobile. Giving up all chance to be part of the rebuilding of the Republic—already proceeding swiftly without him—all chance to help anyone or change anything ever again. "No, I'm not retiring from the Senate. I'll be stepping back into my proper place, come the new session in two months."

"Good," Logan said, smiling with deeper happiness and relief than Charles had expected. "I'm glad to hear that." His arm tightened around Charles's shoulders.

"You've been worried about me." Charles spoke the realization as he made it, staring into Logan's warm, familiar eyes.

"Of course I have. Give me one sane reason I shouldn't be."

"I… can't." Charles smiled ruefully, ducking to press his forehead against Logan's jaw. "Logan… thank you. I don't know what I would have done without you. I don't just mean these last few months. And I don't just mean… keeping me alive." He gestured between them, trying to indicate the flow of life energy from Logan that had saved him more than once now. "I mean everything. From the first day we met. Everything."

Logan hesitated, his fingers winding absently through the hair at the nape of Charles's neck, grown just long enough to curl. "I wish I could have been more of what you needed."

Charles closed his eyes. "I won't pretend not to know what you mean," he whispered, trembling a little. This had gone so long unspoken between them that now, when he _wanted_ to speak of it, he wasn't sure how. "Some part of me will always be Erik's. You know that."

Logan's fingers in his hair went still, his heartbeat strong and quick beneath Charles's cheek. "I know."

"But if you'll have me—what's left of me—"

One warm, broad hand spread against his cheek, Logan tilted his face up and pressed their lips together.

It felt like the most natural thing, as if they'd done it a hundred times, not the fizzy excitement of kissing Erik but something warm and soft and deep as his bones. Charles turned into the kiss, shifting himself across Logan's lap, tasting the sparking joy of Logan's wonder and awe that he was being granted what he'd wanted so badly for so long.

Charles never wanted it to end, and in a way, it didn't—even when their lips finally parted, they stayed close enough together for him to feel Logan's heartbeat against his own chest, Logan's eyelashes brushing his own cheek—still close and safe and loved inside Logan's arms.

"I'm not him," Logan whispered at last, breaking the soft and wonderful silence. "I know I never can be. All I want—"

Charles pressed his fingertips to Logan's lips, cutting off the words. "I know who you are, Logan. And I love you. I love _you_ , for exactly who you are, exactly who you've always been. I'm sorry you've had to wait so long for me." He leaned forward to kiss him again, again, gentle and sweet. "But you don't have to wait any more."


	9. Epilogue

EIGHTEEN MONTHS LATER

"You're right, your summer house looks much nicer in the summer."

_"Our_ summer house." He and Logan weren't married yet—that would happen in the fall—but convincing Logan that Charles wanted to share everything with him was a big enough task that he'd started early.

"Our summer house," Logan agreed, with an air of humoring Charles, and reached out to help him down from the hovercar.

"Thank you, love." Charles carried his cane in the crook of his arm, though he didn't really need it today. There were still times that his legs ached for no apparent reason, or even buckled beneath him; the cane was a necessary precaution. "Pietro!" he called in exasperation as his son darted around him and out across the grass, moving at frankly astonishing speed for a toddler.

"I'll get him." Jean was laughing as she hopped down from the hovercar behind him and darted after Pietro. Scott followed more slowly; the Jedi healers had managed to restore a certain amount of his sight, but moving from dark areas to bright ones was difficult for him, even with the special glasses designed to help.

During the last several months, mostly spent on Alderaan and Corellia, Charles had seen his Jedi friends only in passing—enough to know that they were doing well, at least. He'd kept close tabs on the rebuilding of the Jedi Order, and one of the most surprising developments had been a dramatic easing of the Jedi strictures against attachment. Jean and Scott were holding hands, leaning against each other as they walked toward the house with Pietro bundled onto Jean's hip; Charles smiled, and tried not to wish that rule change could have happened a few years earlier.

"Papa, I'm hungry!" Wanda shouted, hanging cheerfully upside-down in Logan's arms as he tipped the hovercar driver.

"I suppose it is lunch time. What about a picnic?"

"Yay!"

They were all well and truly hungry by the time a picnic could be prepared and carried out onto the lawn, with the help of the handful of staff that had come ahead to open the place up. Jean and Scott, for whom feeding the children was a novelty instead of a constant task, took charge of making sure Wanda and Pietro's sandwiches ended up mostly in their mouths instead of literally everywhere else. Charles let Logan browbeat him into eating a second sandwich, but he still finished far ahead of the others; with a reassuring touch to Logan's shoulder, he slipped away from the group and made his way around the edge of the lake, to the grave that stood just within sight of the house.

"I wanted to tell you that the Second Republic has outlawed slavery in all forms and in all systems." Charles leaned a hand on the headstone, his right leg beginning to twinge. "It's been an absurdly difficult and multi-staged process, trying to do it without causing widespread economic ruin, but it's done. I personally oversaw the enforcement team leaving for Tattooine. If there's anyone left there that you knew, they're free by now."

Little steps crashed through the tall grass behind him, along with shrieks and giggles; Pietro and Wanda nearly knocked him over, chasing each other around the grave marker.

"Come back here, you wild animals, before you drown yourselves in the lake!" Logan bellowed, somewhere behind.

"I've got them!" Charles called back. "Children, you know we've talked about staying where the grown-ups are." He sighed and plucked Pietro off the headstone as he tried to climb it.

Wanda pulled at his sleeve. "But we want to see him."

"See who, darling?"

"Him." Wanda pointed into the shadows of the trees behind them; Charles turned and felt his mouth drop open.

Something blue and shimmery was coalescing there, taking a shape so achingly familiar that Charles couldn't breathe.

Pietro squirmed in Charles's arms, whining to be put down; Charles did so automatically, watching in wide-eyed disbelief as the children ran up to the shimmering figure, waving cheerful hellos. A sort of ringing in Charles's ears drowned out their conversation, as if he might be about to faint, but he watched as Wanda showed off a shiny rock she'd picked up. Pietro, not to be outdone, did a passable version of a forward roll, getting mud in his hair on the way. The figure—Erik, there was no point pretending it was anyone but Erik—smiled wistfully, brushing insubstantial fingers through the children's hair.

"Do you rascals want dessert or not?" Logan shouted. "Get back here!"

The twins waved goodbye to Erik over their shoulders. He waved back, and then he and Charles were alone.

"Erik," Charles said, a hoarse, choked sound.

Erik didn't speak as he stepped closer, but he smiled. He looked… healthy, restored, no longer the broken half-machine that had haunted Charles's dreams. He was dressed in Jedi robes, somewhat to Charles's surprise, and he looked… at peace.

"Erik," Charles said again, and felt tears streaming down his cheeks.

Erik stepped closer, and bent to kiss his lips, the touch nothing more than a cool tingle. Charles closed his eyes.

When he opened them, Erik was gone. Charles knew, somehow, that he wouldn't see him again. But he'd be able to remember him like this, now.

"Chuck! There you are!" Logan came crashing through the grass, swinging a toddler in each arm. He sobered immediately at the sight of Charles's face, approaching more gently. "You okay?"

"Of course." There was little point in trying to hide the tears on his face, but he wiped them away.

Logan hefted both the twins into one arm—he could probably have bench-pressed the entire picnic party—and touched Charles's cheek gently with his free hand. When Charles leaned into the touch, Logan kissed him, long and soft, until the children started to squirm.

Then he winked at Charles, snatched his cane away, and ran off with it held over his head.

"Logan!" Laughing, Charles gave chase, running back to the house he shared with his family.


End file.
